POETRY.
TOILET, OR THE ART OF POETRY.
"Helen was not up, - teas she ?."--PANDARUS.
HELEN sleeps still, her stockings lie, Black branches, on a snowy sky.
From Trot's hearths rise faint trees of smoke
Out of the needs of common folk.
But .now her mind is a green glade Where wanders a quite harmless maid, Mirsing the still fire in her blood In mere wanton lassitude.
Through- grape-dark veins wind-softly ran Death's inobtrusive caravan, .
From breast to breast and lips to feet As though along a falling street..
The pool her image falls upon Holds fast as ice that captive swan. Lilies in mirrored branches wrought Are Joys entangled in her thought.
The mirror of the mind is filled In trance with blossoms none have willed To lift up. from its silver slime Clear brows that pierce the glass of time And when she leaves her secret ways, Gowned in a slender, silken phrase, Doomed Body's sentinels appear With trees and= stars fast-frozen. here.
Eno r.r.T. RICKWOHD
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